At this period of my life, being made up entirely of ignorance, optimism and faith, I did not know in the least what an Elzevir, or rather Elzevier, was. I learnt that evening, as we shall see; but I did not understand thoroughly until much later, after I had made the acquaintance of my learned friend, la bibliophile Jacob. So it is a little previous to say that the polite gentleman was reading an Elzevir; I ought to say simply that he was reading a book. I have related how I had taken the seat next his, and how, having been distracted from his reading by having to lift his hat off my seat, he had immediately plunged back again into his reading, more absorbedly than ever. I have ever admired men who are capable of doing anything whole-heartedly (passionnément);—please do not confound passionnément with passionnellement; this latter adverb was not invented in 1823, or, if it were, Fourier had not yet exploited it.
It was not surprising that, interested as I was in literature, I should endeavour to find out what the book was which could inspire such a powerful influence over my neighbour, who was so deeply absorbed in his reading that, metaphorically speaking, he gave himself up, bound hand and foot, into my power. I had more than a quarter of an hour in which to make this investigation before the curtain rose, therefore I conducted it at my leisure. First of all, I tried to see the title of the book; but the binding was carefully hidden by a paper cover, so it was impossible to read the title on the back of the book. I rose; in that position I could look down on the reader. Then, thanks to the excellent sight I have the good fortune to possess, I was able to read the following curious title on the opposite side to the engraved frontispiece:—
LE PASTISSIER FRANÇOIS
Où est enseignée la manière de faire toute sorte
de pastisserie
Très-utile à toutes sortes de personnes;
Ensemble le moyen d'apprester toutes sortes;
d'œufs pour les jours maigres et autres
En plus de soixante façons.
AMSTERDAM
CHEZ LOUIS ET DANIEL ELZÉVIER
1655
"Ah! ah!" I said to myself, "now I have it! This well-mannered gentleman is surely a gourmand of the first order,—M. Grimod de la Reyniere perhaps, whom I have so often heard described as a rival of Cambacérès and of d'Aigrefeuille;—but stay, this gentleman has hands and M. Grimod de la Reyniere has only stumps." At that moment, the polite gentleman let his hand and the book he held fall on his knees; then, casting his eyes upward, he appeared to be lost in profound reflection. He was, as I have said, a man of forty or forty-two years of age, with an essentially gentle face, kindly and sympathetic; he had black hair, blue-grey eyes, a nose slightly bent to the left through an excrescence, a finely cut, clever-looking, witty mouth—the mouth of a born story-teller.
I was yearning to get up a conversation with him—I, a hobbledehoy of a country bumpkin, ignorant of everything, but anxious to learn as they put it in M. Lhomond's elementary lessons. His benevolent countenance encouraged me. I took advantage of the moment when he stopped reading to address a word or two to him.
"Monsieur," said I, "pray forgive me if my question seems impertinent, but are you extremely fond of eggs?"
My neighbour shook his head, came gradually out of his reverie, and, looking at me with a distraught expression, he said, in a very pronounced Eastern French accent—
"Pardon me, monsieur, but I believe you did me the honour of addressing me ...?"